


To the Victor, the spoils

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bathing/Washing, Captivity, Chains, Collars, Come Eating, Conquest, Hand Feeding, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, It's a warlord AU, Just Roll With It, M/M, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Objectification, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Virginity Kink, With Chris as the invader, Young Peter Hale, and Peter as the spoil of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: Peter's no fighter, never has been, always too small and slightly, too scorned by Talia and their kin-- a murderer, they whisper, taking his mother's life with his birth, but none of the blood on his hands could help him when the Argents came.  He'd tried, he’d had to; Cora was with him,  he'd picked up a sword, only to have it struck from his hands. The woman who led them had laughed, high and cruel, her dark eyes burning with unholy fire on her blood-streaked face.  Peter's head throbs from where she'd struck him, the pommel of her sword leaving behind a painful bruise. She'd stood over him, crooning how he was just perfect. The blissful unconsciousness that followed left him fearful of just what she meant. ***Chris is a warlord, Peter is a spoil of war





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy AU Day, lovelies! :D 
> 
> Thanks to Boxoftheskyking for the title - this story was spawned from my answer to the fanfic title meme <3
> 
> Thank you to all the amazing tumblr and discord people who made this fic possible! 
> 
> As this story is dark, please heed the warnings. Don't hesitate to ask for clarification and if you see anything I should tag for, please let me know!
> 
> (and the notes are back where they belong)

She’s dead.

Peter chokes back the tears, squeezes his eyes shut as he curls into himself. She’s dead. Talia is dead, slain by the silver-haired warrior leading the attack. 

His sister, her husband, his brothers-- all cut down in the vicious attack as the Argents rode into Beacon and laid waste to everything.

Peter prays to the silent gods the children still live, prays for mercy he knows he won't have.  
Talia is dead and oh god, Peter hates himself for it; he's wished for it, wished for his sister's misfortune, but not like this, not with all of Beacon burning down around them and blood staining the earth

Peter's no fighter, never has been, always too small and slightly, too scorned by Talia and their kin-- a murderer, they whisper, taking his mother's life with his birth, but none of the blood on his hands could help him when the Argents came. He'd tried, he’d had to; Cora was with him, he'd picked up a sword, only to have it struck from his hands. 

The woman who led them had laughed, high and cruel, her dark eyes burning with unholy fire on her blood-streaked face. Peter's head throbs from where she'd struck him, the pommel of her sword leaving behind a painful bruise. She'd stood over him, crooning how he was _just perfect_. The blissful unconsciousness that followed left him fearful of just what she meant. 

The fact that they weren’t run through on the spot is terrifying. He's heard what Argents do to captives, stories of torment far worse than forced labor and servitude. He doesn’t know what happened to Cora, what happened to anyone. 

He’s all alone in the tiny cellar, shoved there unceremoniously and barely conscious; he can smell blood and smoke, hear the cries of the wounded, the cries of his people. Peter has never been so terrified in his life. 

There’s no telling how long he’s in the cellar; long enough to get thirsty, long enough to get hungry and stiff, fear curdling at the pit of his stomach. Slowly, everything seems to quiet down, but the scent of smoke doesn’t leave him even as he slowly falls into exhausted topor. 

Peter jolts awake when there’s a loud bang, the bar upon the door cast aside. For a moment of fevered hope he thinks it’s someone to come rescue him, that it’s not Argent’s men. But as the door is thrown open and torch light stabs into his eyes, Peter knows he’s not so lucky`-- he can see her, a streak of blood still on her cheek as he’s unceremoniously dragged out and dumped at her feet. 

She crouches down and he finally notices the symbols stitched to her armor; she is not only of _Argent_ , she _is_ Argent; Peter feels a flash of anger cutting through the icy fear and he snarls at her, only for her the throw her head back and laugh. 

“Pretty and spirited, that’s good,” She says as she crouches down to take hold of his face. Her thumb digs painfully at the hinge of his jaw, forcing his mouth open with a pained whine. She turns his head this way and that, inspecting him like he’s just an animal, a beast on display. “You’ll do just fine.” 

She pats his cheek before she stands up and tells the men to _have him prepared_ ; Peter doesn't know what that means, but their rough laughter makes the pit of his belly drop, makes him struggle when they pick him up and start dragging him away. 

It’s no use; Peter is not a fighter, and these are all soldiers, strong and brutish. The hold on his arms is too strong to break, forcing him to stumble along towards where he knows the bathhouses lie.

His eyes water with smoke and tears when he’s brought in; he recognizes the women standing in the room vaguely, but he doesn’t know their names. They look as terrified as he feels, cowering as the soldiers push him forward. 

There’s a strawberry blonde woman he doesn’t recognize, wearing a white dress and a sash in Argent colors, looking him over critically. He feels like a piece of meat when she walks over, hands clasped behind her back as she -- as she _inspects_ him. Peter feels sick, like he should fight, run, say something, but he’s swaying on his feet, the fear and pain catching up to him. His throat is parched with thirst and the sight of the spring water in basins makes him ache. 

When the women step forward, he doesn’t resist; he lets them pull him forward, to strip his grimy clothes off him. Neither one of them speaks but they exchange glances over his head, their faces full of fear and something else he recognizes. Pity. Scorn. 

They are embarrassingly thorough -- they let him drink, then sluice water over him. They scrub, scrape, run combs through his hair and pull at the tangles until tears form in his eyes, all under the direction of the redhead. Peter flinches when they reach between his thighs, closes his eyes against the humiliation of being treated like a child. 

It’s nothing compared to when the redhead steps forward, a blade in her hand; two of the soldiers come up and replace the women, holding him still as she runs the blade over his skin, scrapes over his cheeks and neck, under his arms and -- lower. Peter whines when she touches him, when she takes hold of his cock and lifts it out of the way to run the razor over his testes, the cold metal sliding over tender skin a terrifying feeling. 

His cheeks burn with embarrassment when he’s flipped over, her dainty little hand spreading his cheeks and running cold steel over the hair there. She’s not satisfied until he’s smooth as a babe, _everywhere._

She sniffs delicately. “There we go. Oil him up, but do not breach him. His Lordship will see to that. ” 

_Breach -- his Lordship_ \-- Peter shudders violently as warm, sweet-scented oil is poured over him; the women are just as thorough as they rub it on his skin, everywhere the blade touched so sensitive it makes him whine, makes him feel like there’s a tender fire being stroked along his skin. It’s almost enough to distract him from the knowledge that he’s not being prepared for the warrior woman, he’s being prepared for -- 

He’s still trying to wrap his mind around what they plan for him when a woman steps forward, arms laden with green silk. Peter recognizes them, recognizes a part of Laura’s -- oh god, _Laura! _\- dowry. He tries to struggle when they start draping his niece’s wedding silks on him, but the sound of a sword drawn for an inch stills him.__

__The fabric drapes around him all wrong, not meant for a man, baring more than covering. He flinches when silver cuffs are snapped around his wrists and ankles, the Argent crest displayed prominently._ _

__“Now stay still,” the redhead admonishes him when she lifts a heavy silver collar to place it around his neck. “Be a good pup.”_ _

__The collar is heavier than it looks, and sits on his neck like a staggering reminder of everything he’s lost in the past day and a half. The click of the lock is deafening, like the lid of a coffin sealing everything away._ _

__She clips a thin steel chain onto the collar, gives it a quick tug and wraps it around her fist. “Here we go.”_ _

__Peter numbly follows her out of the baths. He hastily slides his feet into leather slippers when indicated, to not to get his feet dirty on the bloody ground as he’s led towards the enemy encampment that’s risen at the edge of the village._ _

__He can feel the eyes on him, the soldiers, the -- the _survivors_ being penned like animals, all watching as he stumbles past. The redhead keeps the leash tight, keeps him from falling down, keeps him from dirtying himself before -- before -- _ _

__The tent he’s led to is large and imposing, Argent banners displayed proudly. The guard lifts the flap and she guides him inside. He stumbles a little as he moves onto the plush carpet and she tugs him forward impatiently._ _

__It hits him what is is about to happen, what they’re about to do, and the panic wells inside him. He pulls back away from her, tries to take a step back, get out of there. His heart hammers in his throat as terror floods his exhausted body._ _

__Peter makes it out of the tent, under the awning but the guards are on him - two burly men catch him, an arm as big around as his thigh catches him across the chest. He cries out when he’s dragged back, when he’s picked up off his feet and carried back in._ _

__“Where do you want him, Miss Lydia?” Peter tries to struggle in vain, the large hands like bands of iron around his arms, another guard grabbing his leg before he can kick out._ _

__“Put him down on the furs and chain him up,” the redhead decrees, and Peter tries to shout, to bite, to beg to please be let go --_ _

__“Oh, he _is_ spirited!” the voice cuts through his panic; it’s the laughing woman, the warrior. _ _

__“You - “Peter tries to speak, tries to get away from the guards’ hold, only for bright pain to bloom on his face as she backhands him, quick as a viper._ _

__“Did I say you could speak?” her voice is arch and Peter tastes blood. “You are going to behave for my brother, else I am going to make sure that girl you were with takes your place.”_ _

___Cora_ \- oh gods, not Cora, she’s just a _child_! - Peter stills his struggle, all fight leaving him. He lets himself be deposited on the fur rugs, his cuffs linked into chains. _ _

__The collar he wears is the last, the leash wrapping around a tent pole._ _

__Without another word they leave him there to wait in the dark._ _

__*****_ _

__Chris is exhausted when he finally gets back to his tent. He raises an eyebrow when instead of the expected refreshments, there's a young man in his tent, chained face down to the floor._ _

__The boy looks up, big blue eyes blinking at Chris when he hears the warrior enter; he tries to lift his head, only for the chain and collar tug him down again, unable to move more than a few inches._ _

__Come to think of it, Kate had looked unusually smug when he'd passed her earlier. This must be her doing, her and Lydia’s. He can see her handiwork here, her knowledge of his tastes from her time on her knees evident._ _

__Really, it's a lovely surprise, but Chris is still covered in blood and grime; he intends to rectify that first, and the boy is not going anywhere. He calls for Isaac; the boy appears like a shadow, bowing respectfully as he starts to help Chris with his armor. His squire has gotten good at this over the past year, long-fingered hands quick on the buckles as he takes each piece off to be thoroughly cleaned._ _

__Chris watches the boy in chains as he waits for Isaac to be done, for hot water to be brought in. He recognizes the curve of the cheekbone, the arrogant tilt to the jaw that hasn't worn out even under captivity and bondage._ _

__A Hale. His sister has gifted him one of Beacon's finest, one of the usurper duke's staunch supporters._ _

__He bites back a groan when Isaac runs the warm washcloth over his skin, gets all the sweat and dried blood off him. The boy is efficient, even if he blushes as he kneels down to wash Chris's groin. Chris hasn't had the boy on his knees, not for lack of interest because Isaac has the face of an angel, but because he knows Isaac will make a good soldier, a good commander once he comes to himself, and being broken on Chris's cock would not contribute to that._ _

__Isaac holds out a soft silk-lined tunic for him after; Chris slips his arms into the sleeves and belts it tightly, then waves the boy away with curt instructions to bring a light dinner._ _

__There is personal correspondence waiting for him while his dinner is being brought; he takes a seat and leafs through it, separating the missives into ones that require attention and ones he'd rather forget altogether._ _

__He's halfway through reading a letter from his daughter when his ears pick up on a sound that doesn't belong; he glances at the boy on the furs and realizes they must've not fed him properly, because Chris can hear his stomach growling._ _

__The boy can tell Chris noticed, and his cheeks flush a beautiful shade of red, but he keeps his eyes downcast_ _

__Chris chuckles. "Don't worry, pet," he says absentmindedly and reaches down to run a hand through inky black hair, "I'll feed you soon enough."_ _

__He gets through the letter, smiling fondly at Allison's complaints about her tutors; he knows if there's any real merit to it, Victoria will let him know. He sets the letter aside for now, composing a reply in his head as there's a knock and Isaac brings in a tray_ _

__Chris gestures for him to set if down and excuses him for the night; it'll do good for Isaac to go and celebrate a successful conquest, integrate himself to the men._ _

__He picks up a chunk of bread and dips it in the broth. It smells good, and he hears a small whimper at his feet, like a hungry dog begging for scraps. Chris looks down; the boy's face is tilted up as far as the chain allows, his breath coming in shallow pants through his mouth._ _

__He runs a critical eye over the boy, takes in the pale, smooth skin, the lack of scars and muscle, the way the silk drapes over him like he was bred to be a bedwarmer. A pampered little princeling, not used to hardship_ _

__Chris chuckles a little. "Hungry, Pet?"_ _

__The boy licks his lips, another whine escaping him as he cranes his face up in an awkward nod. Chris considers making him beg for a moment, but relents, those big blue eyes look so desperate, it's beautiful._ _

__He leans down to pop the chunk of bread into the boy's mouth. The grateful moan that the boy lets out goes straight into Chris's cock; he'd thought of himself as too tired to take advantage of the boy tonight, but that might very well change._ _

__"That's it," he encourages the boy when that little pink tongue hesitantly laps at his fingers to chase the last traces of broth. "You eat from the hand of your master."_ _

__The boy shudders at his words and his eyes flutter close. Chris reaches for another piece of bread to feed to his pet, before he turns back to sup himself._ _

__The beef is a welcome change from rabbit and dried fish; the farms in Beacon had plenty of cattle, and he knows his men slaughtered several to prepare for a victory feast. This is no passing through campaign, this is an occupation, and they intend to show it._ _

__There's a lot of foreign spice in the meat, no doubt coming from the vaults of the local finest. He muses as he tears off a chunk of meat and feeds it to the boy, who whines when his fingers withdraw. Some of them were probably from the Hales’ own kitchen._ _

__Chris eats till he's sated, giving the boy scraps in between, the grateful little noises and quick tongue stoking his ardour through the meal. As he finishes the last of his wine - an excellent vintage, no doubt from the Hales' famed cellars, he sighs in satisfaction._ _

__The boy is still licking his finger, chasing the meat grease clinging to them. There's a jug of water on the table; Chris pours a little into the now empty bowl, letting it mix with the juices and scraps before he sets it down in front of the boy._ _

__Chris leaves the boy to lap at the water as he washes his hands and tells the guards that he is not to be disturbed unless it is an emergency. He nudges the bowl aside with a foot, all the water is gone, the boy's eyes wide as he looks up at Chris._ _

__Chris considers his options; the keys to the chains hand on the tent post, too far for the boy to reach even if he'd gotten a hand free. He cups a hand over his erection in contemplation and watches the boy's eyes go wide, filled with fear and dreadful anticipation. Such a pretty face, Chris doesn't know how it would be possible but he thinks, perhaps...._ _

__"Tell me, pet, are you untouched? Did my sister gift me a virgin?”_ _

__Oh, that blush is delicious; it goes down the boy's chest, has his plush lips falling open when he hesitantly nods._ _

__"Words, boy," Chris instructs him._ _

__"Y-yes," the boy's voice wavers, but before Chris can reprimand him, he rushes to add "Master" in a rushed half-whisper._ _

__Chris grins, slow and wolfish. It's been a while since he's had a virgin in his hands, and he thinks it's probably a good thing he's still weary to the bone. It lets him take his time breaking the boy in, in a way having the fire of battle still in his blood would not._ _

__He crouches down and tilts the boy's head up by the chin, fingers gentle as they brush against smooth pale skin. The boy's breath hitches as he comes face to face with Chris's cock, close enough he can probably smell the excitement beading at the tip._ _

__"Eyes on me."_ _

__Chris undoes his belt, lets his tunic fall open as he takes hold of his cock. he's not entirely hard yet, but with the way the boy's blue eyes widen impossibly further, darkening with apprehension, he's getting there fast._ _

__It does not take him long until he's close, until he's twisting a calloused thumb under the head; he may have willing holes to fuck, but he can still take himself in hand like only a soldier can. He comes with a grunt, filling his palm with his seed._ _

__"You will eat from your master's hand," he tells the boy as he lifts his hand to the boy's face._ _

__There is only a moment of hesitation, then that beautiful pink tongue sneaks out to hesitantly lap at the white on his palm, lap at the salty come._ _

__Chris doesn't let go of the boy's face until his hand is clean; he wipes his hand on the furs and straightens up, wincing at the twinge in his back. He's not as young as he used to be._ _

__Without another word to the boy he fastens his tunic again and goes to bed down, already thinking about the challenges tomorrow will present._ _

__

__***************************************************_ _


End file.
